


Public Affairs

by hereticalvision



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereticalvision/pseuds/hereticalvision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Even the best of Slytherins will crawl over everyone else to get what they want.</i> Harry never could have foreseen what would happen when he teamed up with Draco Malfoy to improve the public perception of Slytherin House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Public Affairs

Harry opened the door to the office with "Malfoy, Malfoy & Malfoy" painted in huge black letters on the window like something out of a film noir. It fit perfectly with the third-floor Knockturn Alley location, but rather less well with the bright and cheery waiting room behind it; he had rather been expecting heavy mahogany, visible decanters and a sassy blonde secretary, not comfortable blue chairs, bare wood floors, and lamps that looked like they might have come from that IKEA Hermione was so fond of. The reception desk was unstaffed and so he looked past it to the single unmarked door behind it. He stepped into the waiting area and waited for a response – and when none came, he called tentatively, "Hello?"

A _thud_ and an "Ow!" came from behind the door.

"Hello?" Harry said again.

"Yes, well," came the familiar drawling tone from behind the door, "you've already startled me so you may as well-" at this point the door opened and Harry Potter came face to face with Draco Malfoy for the fourth time that year – which was four times more than in the preceding eighteen.

"Potter," Malfoy said, recovering his composure with lightening speed. "Are you here to arrest me?"

Harry couldn't help himself. "Why, what have you done?"

Malfoy sneered. "I was wondering, myself, if someone was going to come and try to persuade me to 'resign' from the Wizengamot." His voice dripped with disdain and sarcasm, but somewhere under all that, Harry's Auror instincts told him, Malfoy was afraid.

"I saw what happened with your bill," Harry said, watching Malfoy's mouth, which tightened. "I'm sorry." And he was. Malfoy had spent a lot of time and effort drafting a bill designed to end the restrictions on where former Death Eaters and their associates could legally seek employment, arguing that after almost twenty years of being ostracized from the Ministry, the Auror Office and of course Hogwarts, it was time to reintegrate. The _Daily Prophet_ had dubbed it the "Bad-Faith Bill" and printed quotes from Death Eater victims, presumably from the vaults where they kept twenty years' worth of venom, reminding the wizarding world of all the atrocities the Death Eaters had committed as though anyone could forget.

Malfoy shrugged although the gesture clearly cost him. "It was never going to pass, was it?" he said as he raised a hand to his forehead, ever-higher as his hairline ran for the back of his skull. The gesture made him so vulnerable that Harry almost wanted to comfort him.

Instead he looked away, out of the office window, back to the door. "I thought you worked alone," Harry said, making conversation. When he turned back to Malfoy, he was frowning.

"I do."

"Oh," said Harry, confused. "Then who are the other two Malfoys? On the sign?"

"Oh, they're all me," Malfoy breezed, evidently back on track. "I'm a solicitor, barrister and orator after all – I require recognition in all aspects of my brilliance."

Harry blinked rapidly, trying to process the fact that Malfoy was either a complete egomaniac or literally insane. "Er, right," he said instead.

"One can certainly tell that you are none of these things, eloquence never having been your strong suit," said Malfoy.

"And yet people listen to me," Harry retorted, slight stress on the _me_.

Malfoy's eyes flashed, but the expression was barely there before it was gone again. It reminded Harry of the picture that had accompanied the article about the failure of Malfoy's bill – Malfoy storming out of the Wizengamot, quoted as saying, "What’s the difference between this and the Muggleborn Registration Commission?" There had been the predictable outrage and counter-comments of which Harry's favourite had been Senior Undersecretary to the Minister Terry Boot's, "Likening measures to protect our society to pernicious racism tends to dangerous hyperbole." It sounded so like Hermione that Harry had smiled – and it was damn near a defence of Malfoy, too, compared to the slew of people calling for his resignation for even daring to suggest that after twenty years the wizarding world should let the past be the past.

"And yet you're getting divorced," Malfoy snapped.

Harry immediately forgot all about Malfoy's frankly reasonable bill to the Ministry. Of course no one listened to Malfoy; Malfoy was spiteful and arrogant and responded to setbacks with childish taunts. “And where’s _your_ wife, Malfoy?” he spat. Malfoy looked away.

Harry took a deep breath and said, "This is getting us nowhere."

Malfoy turned away, the closest he would ever come to apologizing. He cleared his throat and Harry watched his throat working, his long blond hair falling over pale skin. And then he frowned at himself for watching Malfoy at all.

Malfoy's head came up again and he met Harry's eyes, the cold grey ice blast back in full force. "Why did you come here, Potter?"

Harry exhaled slowly. "You know I'm no longer Head Auror?"

Malfoy nodded. "I could hardly miss the ceremony commemorating all your fine work," he drawled acidly.

"Well, er…" Harry wasn't quite sure how to put this next part.

"Spit it out, Potter," Malfoy ordered. "I've got things to do today and you just can't get the staff these days."

Perfect opening. "Actually, I'm here…"

"Bloody temp agency," Malfoy wasn't listening.

"…about a job," Harry concluded.

Malfoy looked at him for a moment. The moment stretched longer. Malfoy blinked.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, "Would you repeat that?"

"I'm here about a job," Harry obliged.

Malfoy's face was making the most comical expression Harry had ever seen – and Malfoy had a plethora of comical expressions, Harry remembered well. He was half-frowning, half-squinting, with his mouth trying to jerk itself into a sneer and hang open in shock all at once. The only feature consistent with Malfoy's usual poise was the left eyebrow, half raised and causing the forehead above to crinkle into by-now well-worn lines.

"Why?" said Malfoy.

Harry tried to grin disarmingly. "Would you believe I want to help?"

"No," Malfoy said flatly.

Harry huffed in surprised laughter.

"Well, all right, yes," Malfoy conceded. "You always were the one helping puppies across the road when you weren't eviscerating people in bathrooms –"

"You were trying to _crucio_ me!" Harry retorted.

"But why would you suddenly care about Death Eater rights when you…" Malfoy's breath hissed out in a rush as he visibly realized something. "Your younger son."

Harry tensed. "What about him?"

Malfoy's mouth curled. "You know what about him. He's a Slytherin, isn't he?"

Harry nodded. "And it doesn't make him less of a person," he said harshly, hoping that Malfoy would hear something that would make him listen.

But Malfoy was thinking about something else as he mused, "Of course not, Potter. But getting other people to accept that is something of a challenge these days."

"It's really bad for him at school," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably, watching Malfoy carefully. "I don't want-"

Malfoy was smiling again, sharp and bright as a knife, as he interrupted, “Well, altruism be damned, I'll trust self-interest every time. Were you thinking of a receptionist position?"

"I won't be working _for_ you, Malfoy," Harry told him bluntly.

Malfoy tilted his head, confused. "Then what…?"

"I’ll be working _with_ you… as equal partners."

Malfoy looked appalled. "Oh, I don't know about-"

He might not but Harry did. Time for the plain speaking: "You can lord it over me and pretend that you don't need my help, and I can stand here for another hour boring both of us by reminding you why you _do_ or, here's a suggestion, I can make us some tea, acting in a receptionist capacity for this one time only, and we can thrash out a plan. So what's it going to be?"

Malfoy allowed a reluctant smile to tug one side of his mouth upward. "All right then. But in the morning I drink coffee, thank you very much."

Harry smiled. "See, this is going to work out. I can make that, too."

 

It wasn't really _self_ interest when it was your son, Harry told himself, except that it was and he knew it and he was ashamed that he'd never thought about any of these things before.

Because unfortunately James picked up that anti-Slytherin rhetoric from Rose and Hugo, who got it from Ron despite Hermione repeatedly telling him to shut up about it. And of course James would taunt Al with it, that was the type of brothers they were. Then when Al actually _was_ sorted into Slytherin, James had written them a gloating letter full of glee about how his brother was a baby snake and Al had written a frantic letter full of worry that he had let them down. One son had been reprimanded and one reassured, and that was all normal.

After that Harry hadn't been paying quite as much attention for a bit, which was understandable considering his marriage was ending, but inexcusable considering what had happened in the meantime. Harry had spent his days at the Auror office staring at mountains of paper work that he couldn't have cared less about completing, and nights with a woman to whom he found himself utterly unable to communicate his frustration, his dissatisfaction and his impotence – although he hadn't used that last word, she had, and really Harry was sort of miserable so was it surprising he wasn't up for anything? He couldn't change that, but he _could_ change the intense boredom of the days with the paperwork and Ron the only one bold enough to wander into his office despite his best efforts towards informality. The worst of it though was the sick envy in his stomach whenever the Junior Aurors headed out to a particularly interesting-sounding crime scene, serious-faced and bright-eyed. "I don't know Ginny," he’d sighed. "I think I need to change something."

"Why would you change anything?" Ginny had replied with just a hint of condescension in her voice, as though she was speaking to one of the kids. "We're happy."

Harry had barely raised his voice to Ginny in all the years they've been married but for that he could have struck her. Part of him had been screaming at her, because what did saying something like that make her but a liar. The rest of him was simply shocked at the force of his rage, stronger than any he'd felt since Sirius died, and it's that part of him that feels sick with himself as soon as the fury subsides back into its usual nebulous discomfort.

All he had said to her was, "Er, right."

But when he’d had time to think it through fully it occurred to him that maybe Ginny wasn’t lying. Maybe she simply had no idea who Harry was anymore. Maybe the time and all the distractions had taken them in different directions to the point where they’d lost all their common ground.

It was downhill pretty quickly after that.

And meanwhile, as all this was happening, neither Harry nor Ginny registered that Al’s letters home were breezy and brittle, while James had abruptly changed from being the typical vile older brother to actually expressing concern for Al. Ginny thought they were all happy? Harry had nothing like her excuse.

And so, the fire-call. Al’s head in the fireplace one Saturday morning; he’d asked Aberforth Dumbledore to help him. Harry had been surprised but pleased to hear from his son and had smiled at him as he said, "How are you?"

Al had bitten his lip as, to Harry's horror, tears filled his son's eyes. "Dad, can I come home?"

The story had come out piece by piece: how from the moment of the Sorting anyone who was sorted into Slytherin would be shunned and mocked by the other houses. How James had ended up having to defend him from the other Gryffindors but the older boys would trip and jinx him in the hallways anyway. How cousin Rose ordered him to stop speaking to her, and Victoire might be Head Girl but Al was too embarrassed to ask her for help. How this third year Hufflepuff girl had turned him upside down and shown everyone his underwear – and how she’d been going to show them more than that when Dominique came along and slugged her. How the only decent person in his whole year outside of Slytherin was a Ravenclaw called Scorpius, who wanted to be friends but was too scared of being targeted himself.

"I could handle it when it was just James, Dad," Al had blurted. "But it’s everyone! They all look at us like we’re scum and they’re just waiting for us to do something awful so they can feel justified about how they treat us and it’s all the time." Tears were starting to escape now despite Al's best efforts; he scrubbed at them angrily. "They’re always trying to goad someone into doing something and the professors either don't see or don’t care. We don’t even have a head of house anymore because Slytherin’s such a disgrace – so there’s no one to look out for us!"

"Why didn't you tell us?" Harry had asked gently. Al's letters had all seemed so positive.

Al had shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't want to let you down. You said the Hat would listen but it didn't. It told me that I'd do well in Slytherin and when I said I didn't want to be Slytherin it said…" Harry ached to think about Al’s shoulders slumping as he voice had trailed away.

Harry had made his voice as gentle as he could. "What did it say?"

Al had gulped. "That Slytherin would help me to be great. I don't want to be great, Dad," he’d pleaded, eyes wide and hopeless.

Harry had sighed and enfolded Al in his arms. "I understand."

And he did; it was Harry who was letting his son down.

Harry had gone home and ranted to his wife about how terrible things had become at Hogwarts, and how someone had to make a stand.

Ginny had said simply, “Maybe we should send him to Beauxbatons instead.”

Harry had been shocked. “You think we should let Al run away?”

“I think we should let him be a child.”

“Ginny,” Harry had said, “that won’t solve the problem. We can’t just let it be someone else’s issue. If we don’t-”

“Oh, brilliant,” Ginny had snapped, something Harry had said touching a nerve and bringing on a rant of her own, something long-suppressed and virulent. “You never could back away from a fight, never let anything be anyone else’s problem except me and your family.”

“What?” Harry had been aghast.

Ginny had been on a roll. “You spent all those hours at work, all those days away on cases, and you finally got to the top, got the desk job that would let you spend more time with us like you always said you wanted, and then you went on and on about how you were unhappy and how you felt trapped and how you wanted something to change when I gave up my whole career to be with you and raise your children and now,” tears in her eyes, “now you think you know what’s best for Al? You’re just turning him into you and _I won’t let you_.”

And then the tired silence. The tears and the explanations. How it had been Harry’s saying that he wanted to change something that had incensed Ginny because she’d been saying that for years and he’d never heard her. And he’d promised to quit, to try harder, but she’d sobbed that it was too late, she just wanted her life back.

“You really believed I was happy, didn’t you?” she said and when Harry nodded helplessly, Ginny had stopped crying and said in an aching voice, “You don’t understand me at all.”

So now Al and James had to deal with their parents breaking up on top of everything else. Lily was spending some time with her grandparents and Al’s future had been compromised.

“The end of the school year,” she’d given in. “But if nothing’s changed…”

Harry had tried to take her hand but she’d flinched away. “If nothing’s changed, I’ll agree with you,” he’d said.

She’d smiled at him then, weakly, but it was the first time in months and Harry felt incredibly sad that it had taken him so long to notice.

 

Malfoy didn’t get to hear all of that, of course, just the edited highlights. But Harry was fairly certain the point came across – and, as it turned out, he hadn’t been telling Malfoy much that he didn’t already know.

“The thing about the head of Slytherin - that was a big reason to push the bill,” Malfoy said. “The restrictions on Death Eaters and their ‘associates’ working at a school – well it cuts down a large number of candidates. And with Slytherin house and the Death Eaters so synonymous in people’s minds...” Malfoy sighed a little and shook his head, but not in the resignation Harry had seen in him earlier that day. This was an angry shake. “I knew this would happen. I knew they’d end up all alone, and I keep trying to tell people and no one cares.”

“I care,” said Harry. “What can I do?”

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed. “You’re serious about helping us?”

“Of course,” Harry said. "Maybe if I talk to McGonagall-"

“Go ahead,” said Malfoy. “I find it like talking to a wall, but then perhaps you’ll find yourself able to flirt with the foxy vixen without gagging.”

Literally insane, then. “Er, no,” said Harry, “I don’t think I will. Flirt that is,” he added hastily at Malfoy's smirk.

“I’m sure it would work,” Malfoy said. “I just couldn’t quite manage it myself.” He shuddered theatrically.

“I thought it was anything for the cause,” said Harry dryly.

Malfoy laughed a little, surprised. “There are limits.” He tilted his head to one side. “There’s someone you should meet – a PR consultant who's been helpful. Can you be here tomorrow?”

Harry nodded. “No job and independent means.”

Malfoy grinned. “My kind of man.” That unsettled Harry slightly, or would have if Malfoy hadn’t ploughed on with, “She’s not a morning person so let’s try a lunch meeting?”

Harry nodded. “Sounds fine. I’ll see if I can visit Hogwarts tomorrow morning, get a better idea of where that stands.”

As Harry rose to go, Malfoy opened his mouth and for a wild moment, Harry thought he was going to express gratitude or relief that finally he had help. But of course, they were talking about Malfoy. Instead he said, “I’ll owl you the details of the meet later this evening. Try to stay out of trouble between now and tomorrow.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I will do my level best, Malfoy.” He stuck out his hand. “Looking forward to working with you.” And to his shock it was true.

Malfoy eyed his hand as though he’d never seen such a dangerous item before, and took it gingerly. “Well, all right then, Potter. Just don’t get sentimental on me.”

Harry could feel that handshake for quite a long time.

 

Harry owled Professor McGonagall that evening, and received a reply that she could spare him half an hour the next morning provided he arrived at nine o’clock sharp.

When Harry arrived at the gates of Hogwarts' grounds the following morning, to his surprise Harry found the Headmistress already there, waiting for him. Professor McGonagall had become very frail, Harry realised when he kissed her on the cheek in greeting. For as long as he can remember he'd thought of her as _old_ but now she really looked every day of it and he could feel it in her bird-fragile finger bones in his clumsy grip.

Professor McGonagall might be old and tired but she was still an imposing presence; she still called him "Potter," and made him feel like a student. "I'm glad you came, Potter," she said, though, and Harry felt the old pride of having pleased his head of house. She raised her eyebrows at him and said, "Shall we walk the grounds? It is a nice day after all, and I spend most of my time inside my office.”

They walked toward the lake, the most beautiful part of the Hogwarts grounds, and the autumn colours in the trees reminded Harry of memories long neglected. It was always nice to be here, always felt like coming back home. He desperately wanted his sons to feel the same way.

Harry came to the point quickly, and McGonagall nodded in understanding. “I was wondering if I would be hearing from you about that. I almost owled you myself, but it seemed inappropriate." She sighed deeply and said, "It's not through any design that there's no head of Slytherin house, Potter, there's just no one willing to take the post. Since Horace passed away we've never had an applicant who could have taught. Draco Malfoy requested a position but, well," McGonagall shrugged and her face hardened. "There will be no Death Eaters at the school, Potter," she said and her voice brooked no opposition. "It's more than anyone can reasonably ask the parents to stand. And yes, I know there are those who think the time has come to forgive and forget but,” her eyes blazed when she met his gaze, “this is where they killed my students.”

Harry bit his lip, remembering that night himself: the ghosts of people he loved and the bodies of his friends. He nodded in understanding and changed the subject. “Al says he’s being bullied.”

McGonagall breathed deeply, then nodded. "It’s possible, though he’s never spoken about it to me and none of the staff have mentioned him saying anything to them. But the Slytherins… We see the hostility, and we do what we can but – well, the students often don't tell us everything. As you should know," she added with a touch of her old asperity. “I look in on the Slytherins as much as I can but they’re not overly forthcoming. But they do often seem…” she paused for a moment, “cowed, when I see them.” She stopped walking then and touched Potter’s arm. “They don’t deserve what’s happening here, not if what you’re saying is true. And it makes sense, much as I wish it didn’t. So find me a candidate, Potter.” she concluded. “I’ll take anyone suitable, anyone who can teach anything at all. We’ll give them a head of house for a start and then we’ll see what else we can do.”

Harry nodded. “It has to be a Slytherin?”

McGonagall smiled her wintry smile. “Really, Potter, do you think anyone else would take the job?”

Harry had to concede she had a point.

A chiming noise coming from somewhere about McGonagall’s person startled Harry. McGonagall for her part frowned and said, “I’ll have to be getting back, Potter. Do you want to see your sons while you’re here?”

Harry grinned.

 

Harry waited in the Great Hall, empty at this time of day except for a few house elves who seemed embarrassed to be seen and scuttled out of sight almost at once. Harry had resisted the urge to check the giant hourglasses to see which house was leading in points – it seemed more than a little childish given the circumstances, but he would always be a Gryffindor no matter how long he’d been away from school.

“Hey, Dad,” said a voice behind him, snapping him out of his reverie. James had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was sticking up worse than Harry’s own. Al by contrast was as neat as could be, but drooping a little. “What are you doing here?”

Harry never had any parents to embarrass him with over-interest, although he’d heard from Ron and Hermione both how overwhelming it could be. So he shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Just wanted to see you. I was here to see Professor McGonagall – couldn’t not say hi.”

This explanation appeared acceptable.

Al seemed just as depressed as ever and James was grimmer than Harry was used to. But at least the Weasley family grapevine had kicked into high gear and now if anyone hassled Al it wasn’t only James they had to worry about. Victoire would hand out detentions, Dominique would have a “quiet word” with them – Harry could only imagine what that entailed – and Rose had apparently received a Howler from her mother which had really only embarrassed her and Al both, but the pressure from her cousins was ensuring that she at least acknowledged Al in the hallways.

“It’s just getting me more attention, Dad,” Al said miserably.

“But they’re not going after you any more, are they?” said James, irritable in the way that meant he wasn’t sleeping properly.

“No, but…” Al looked unhappy again. “Dan and Pictor, they’re not doing so well. Pictor got hexed with something really nasty last week and-“

“Who are they?” Harry interrupted.

James sneered. “Daniel Flint and Pictor Gamp. Slytherin.”

“Yes, they are, but that doesn’t mean they should be hexed with boils that have to be lanced off!” said Al.

Harry could barely contain himself. “Someone did that? Who? Did you tell the professors?”

Al shook his head. “They wouldn’t say, but it was probably some of the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors are mostly too scared of Dominique these days.”

James grinned. “You should have seen what she did to the last kid to corner Al in the halls.”

“But even if they’re not coming after us, they still hate us,” said Al, hunched over.

Looking at his sons, stressed and tired and unhappy, Harry wondered if he’d made the right decision arguing with Ginny. “Maybe we should move you,” he said under his breath.

“Away from Hogwarts?” said James in disgust. “You can’t! I made the Quidditch team this year and there’s this Ravenclaw girl who…” James trailed off, embarrassed.

“Starting early aren’t you, Jamie?” said Harry, relieved to see that James at least was still the same as ever. “But I meant Al.”

“No!” said Al to Harry’s surprise. “No, Dad, come on, if I leave there’s going to be no one to look out for any of them. And they listen to me, a little bit, and I can get them to work together and I can’t leave Dan and Pictor!”

Harry looked at Al’s face and sighed. “You really are just like me, aren’t you?” he said, clasping the back of his son’s neck. Then he looked up at James. “Both of you.”

 

Harry spent so much time with Al and James that he was nearly late for his lunch meeting with Malfoy and his PR consultant. He hurried back to Hogsmeade to Apparate and made it back to London with seconds to spare.

Malfoy was waiting outside the restaurant, a place called Havengore, wearing impeccable dress robes and an impatient expression. “Rude, Potter,” he said when he saw Harry, but he seemed a little relieved, too. Harry wondered when he’d become so adept at reading Malfoy’s moods, but he didn’t have time to think about it as Malfoy ushered him into the restaurant.

“I spoke to McGonagall today,” said Harry as Malfoy propelled him forwards.

“Good, tell me later. Three, name of Malfoy,” Malfoy said to the maître’d.

“So who is it we’re meeting today?” said Harry

“The best PR consultant we can find,” Malfoy said, as they followed the waiter to their table. "Ah good, she’s already here."

Bright blue power suit, long black shining hair pulled back into a ponytail, wide black-framed glasses and a frighteningly familiar pug nose looked up from the table; the woman stood and her figure in the skirt and tailored jacket was a perfect hourglass. She reached out to take Harry’s hand – he shook it on pure instinct. “Pansy Parkinson-Patil, Public Relations,” she said crisply. Her brisk expression thawed a little when Malfoy took her hand and raised it to his mouth.

“As ever, Pansy, your beauty takes my breath away.”

That’s not suave, thought Harry. It’s ridiculous. But the part of him that wasn’t making those kinds of observations was gaping at Pansy.

“It’s been a long time,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Pansy.

"You have a 'Patil' in your name?" said Harry.

"Yes," said Pansy, and not in a tone to encourage further enquiry.

"Does that mean that you…"

"Yes," said Pansy in the same tone.

"With…"

"Yes," said Pansy without blinking. "See here, Potter, we have a lot of work to do today and not a lot of time so can we get over the revelations about my private life and move on to business?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Malfoy. “Aperitif?”

“The usual, darling,” said Pansy, favouring Malfoy with a brilliant smile that lasted precisely the time it took for her eyes to flicker away from him back to Harry. “You got Potter on side, I see. Fabulous. Perhaps this time someone will read the bill before they throw it out of the Wizengamot.”

Harry shifted. “Is the bill really our first priority?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “It’s been the focal point so far.”

Pansy nodded. “Potter may have a point. People are less likely to be threatened by something less political, that plays to the common good. Besides, after the three line whip the Minister called to defeat your bill…”

“The what?” said Harry.

Pansy’s eyes flickered towards Harry and although she looked straight back to Malfoy immediately Harry would swear there was an eye roll in there somewhere. “We’re going to need serious redrafting before we take it anywhere near the Wizengamot again. Not to mention that public opinion is going to have to be swayed one hell of a lot before that kind of flip-flop will come off as a positive development after all these years of scare-mongering and policy by press release.”

Harry was only really getting the gist of what Pansy was saying. He was still trying to wrap his mind around a Pansy Parkinson who drank her lunch out of a martini glass and was married to one of the Patil twins, whom Harry knew for a fact had no brothers, never mind a Pansy Parkinson-Patil who understood politics – Hermione had always said the girl was thick.

“Well,” said Harry, “I spoke to Headmistress McGonagall today.”

Pansy’s lip curled. “And how is the old bag?”

Harry gave her the same glare of distaste he gave her. “Is it _political_ to talk that way about people we need help from?”

Malfoy hooted with laughter. “He’s got you there Pans, you have to hand it to him.”

Pansy’s lip curled further, but she inclined her head to suggest that he keep speaking.

“Professor McGonagall,” said Harry, eyes on Pansy’s face, “will take any suitable candidate, but she says that no one has even applied in five years except you,” he turned to Malfoy. “You didn’t mention that to me.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I didn’t really want it for the sake of the job. Just…” He looked away.

“Yeah. But if no one’s applying, I don’t know,” Harry sighed.

“Easy,” said Malfoy, surprising him. “You just make a statement about the detrimental effect the absence of a proper figurehead for Slytherin House is having on your family, how the stress of your son’s unhappiness contributed to your divorce and how you now want to dedicate yourself fully to ensuring future happiness for your children.”

Before Harry could even speak, Pansy said, “Perfect. You want me to set it up?”

Draco nodded. “Someone friendly. Give them an exclusive.”

“Prophet’s likely out.”

“No one you trust leave off their own spin?”

“Not there, but maybe one,” Pansy said thoughtfully, removing a leather-bound address book from her briefcase. “I’ll make a call.”

Malfoy raised a malicious eyebrow. “Old friend?”

Pansy smirked. “Something like.”

“No,” said Harry, interrupting at last. “No, absolutely not. No interviews, no talking to anyone at any papers, nothing that’s going to draw more attention to Al and James.”

Pansy and Malfoy exchanged a glance; it was Pansy who spoke. “The most important thing you can do for us is speak on our behalf. If the saviour of the wizarding world stands up and says we all need to move on because the children are suffering – well, people listen to that.”

Malfoy nodded his agreement. “I thought that’s what you were offering us, Potter. I can’t think of any better way for you to help.”

Harry swallowed. “Al and James are already feeling so exposed and pressured…”

“It’s not going to get better,” said Pansy softly. “My daughter cried for three days after all her friends stopped talking to her because she was dating a pureblood. It seems that on top of me being her mother was just too much for them,” Pansy’s voice became bitter. “How long before even your Wealsey friends are _persona non grata_ in the new world order?”

Harry hadn’t recovered from the revelation that Pansy had a daughter before Malfoy chimed in, “You think your sons are under pressure now? How about when Al can only get a job if you make a call? How about when James wants to date a Slytherin girl and they get harassed in the streets? You know what happened, what,” he swallowed hard, “we did. You think it’s going to be better this time, now the pendulum’s swung the other way?”

Harry made a last-ditch effort. “I could talk to Luna over at…” said Harry but Malfoy interrupted him with a sharp laugh.

“Doesn’t have nearly the circulation we need, nor the reputation. Trust Pansy,” said Malfoy, nodding at her. “She’s damn good at knowing who’ll put the right spin on what.”

Pansy grinned. “Quite. I’m the reason the Oliver Wood sex scandal became instead a triumph of love over species.”

Harry’s mind was now overloaded with visuals. He cursed his own brain as he said, “All right. I’ll do it, if you think it’s best.”

“Good,” said Pansy. She stood abruptly. “I’ll set it up. Later, darling."

Harry watched her go, torn between admiration and amusement.

Malfoy smiled at him. "Fabulous woman, isn't she? In many ways she is the love of my life."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't sound like you're her type."

 

“You could have told me it would be Pansy we were meeting,” Harry said as he and Malfoy walked back to the office after lunch, which had involved a lot of Malfoy trying to "educate" Harry and a lot of Harry not really paying attention.

“Didn’t I mention it?” Malfoy said brightly. “So sorry.”

“You just wanted to see how I’d react, didn’t you?” said Harry.

Malfoy grinned. “She tends to take people by surprise, bless her. Lovely girl. Always adored her.”

“You never wanted to marry her?”

Malfoy shrugged, and flashed Harry a devilish grin. “I wanted to sleep with her.”

Harry choked out a laugh.

“Well, Pansy, bless her, was irritatingly cloying when we were in school. She remade herself afterwards. Had to – the whole thing about her, well…”

“Trying to sell me out to Voldemort?” Harry couldn’t resist asking.

“Don’t tell me you bear grudges, Potter,” said Malfoy, half-serious. “There’s virtually no one on this side of the debate who didn’t wish you dead at some point.”

Harry found himself a little disturbed by that, though it wasn't exactly news. “Past tense I hope?”

“In most cases,” Malfoy said. He leaned in towards Harry who put a hand on his chest out of pure reflex. “But I can protect you.”

Malfoy was right in Harry’s face now, their breath mingling, his mad smile and the scent of him all Harry could take in and it was too much; Harry felt some kind of tremor inside him that he didn’t really understand, and he could see in Malfoy’s eyes that same flare of sudden awareness and what did it mean? But before he could think too much about it Malfoy had backed away easily as though nothing had happened.

Harry did notice that Malfoy kept a slight distance between them for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived back at the office, someone had painted “DEATH EATER SCUM” on the building. Malfoy sighed and cleaned it off with barely a flick of his wand. “They can’t get through the wards any more, but they still try once every few weeks.”

Harry frowned. “This happens a lot?”

Malfoy shrugged. “People know who I am, and they know that people come here for help sometimes. And some people don’t think Slytherins should ever get any kind of help,” he added bitterly.

Harry followed Malfoy up the stairs, thinking about what Malfoy must go through to keep going with all the world against him, and absolutely not thinking about his face an inch from Harry’s own.

Malfoy unlocked the office door and stepped in, giving a small sound of surprise; a dark-haired woman stood in the waiting area, her eyes red.

“Draco,” the woman said, and her chin was trembling a little.

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment and said to Harry, “Slytherin business, Potter. I’ll see you tomorrow to practice for the interview.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want me to practice?”

“Yes, Potter, otherwise how on earth will we filter your babblings and get our message across? Ten o’clock sharp.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow and made his best supercilious face until Harry smiled, reluctantly, then with a smile Malfoy ushered the woman into his office.

“Tomorrow, Potter,” Malfoy said, eyes dancing, voice mock-threatening.

Harry thought it sounded like a promise.

 

The next morning, Harry arrived on time to find Pansy sitting upright and cross-legged on one of the most uncomfortable-looking chairs in the waiting area, paperwork covering her lap.

"Good morning," he said, a little confused.

Pansy didn't move her gaze from the paper. "Draco won't be here for another hour."

"He told me ten," said Harry, still confused.

"You'll learn," was all Pansy said.

Harry looked around the waiting room and sighed. Pansy went back to ignoring him.

Harry smiled to himself. "So…" he said.

"Yes?" said Pansy.

"You have a daughter?"

"Yes."

"With Padma – or Parvati?"

Pansy's face was like stone as she told him, "Yes." At his frown she said, "Fathom the meaning of that on your own time, Potter. I have work to do."

Fortunately, Malfoy arrived before actual bloodshed could ensue. There's a sentence Harry never thought he'd hear himself think.

When Malfoy breezed in, Harry noticed that he seemed positively dressed down; his dress robes were grey instead of his usual ‘Professor Snape’ black, his hair was tied back neatly instead of flowing majestically over his shoulders, and he was carrying a paper cup of coffee.

"Good morning friends and enemies!" he chirped.

Pansy glared. "Do shut up, Draco, unless that coffee is for me."

"Dearest Pansy," Malfoy grandstanded, "I adore you so and yet it never would have worked between us. Look at you – the morning changes both your appearance and your character and not in any positive way."

"Coffee, Draco?"

Malfoy handed it over. "Secretly she loves me, too."

Harry raised an eyebrow and said, "Perhaps we should leave her to her tetchiness."

Pansy growled, "Not until you’ve signed these. I do have an office of my own to go to, you know. Other clients, even."

Malfoy smiled winningly. "But do they bring you coffee?"

"They pay me."

"That's not real love." Malfoy was looking at Harry when he said this last; Harry didn’t know what to make of that.

As Harry watched Malfoy and Pansy bounce words back and forth, rapid as a snitch darting around the Quidditch field he wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to be a part of this kind of dynamic. It did seem to tie into the Slytherins ethos – they obviously cared about each other but they were all desperate to hide it as though it could be used against them. Harry thought about Al growing into that and felt a twinge – and yet, it didn't seem to have done Malfoy nearly as much harm as Harry had believed. Malfoy had a good relationship with his son by all accounts, and if his wife was, quote _on the continent for the sake of her health_ end quote, and had been for about two years, Harry was hardly in any position to judge.

But except for the occasional flashes of exhaustion Malfoy was always cheerful, with an edge of malice, and always thinking, ready for "the next stroke of undiluted genius," as he had referred to his thoughts, to which Harry had rolled his eyes.

Watching Malfoy and Pansy though, their back and forth meaningless banter, which he'd never really had with anyone, seemed nice – to be able to talk and be reassured of your closeness without ever having to open up about your feelings or any of that other marriage-counsellor claptrap. He loved his friends, he’d loved Ginny – and yes, he could safely say that was past tense now – but Malfoy was the first person he’d ever felt related to him as though he were a springboard, throwing ideas and insults and trying to create a bounce. Harry rather liked it.

"Anyway, Potter," Malfoy said, bringing Harry back to the present. "The interview is in five days and that means that you have a hell of a lot of practice to do. We have to take you from this," he waved a hand that somehow conveyed to Harry that he was a complete disaster, "to someone people can really look up to."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "People do look up to me."

"But for all the wrong reasons!" Malfoy announced. "Are you articulate, charismatic, eloquent? No!"

Harry brushed it aside in favour of humour. "In other words I'm supposed to become you?"

Malfoy ignored him. "So no ‘ums’, ‘ers’ or other nonsense syllables, no fluffing up your hair, gods, Potter, your hair, no referring to past triumphs and no false modesty!"

"Er," said Harry.

Malfoy held up a hand. "No! No, no, no, Potter, were you not listening?"

In fact Harry wasn't; he was too busy laughing.

 

Five days later, Harry sat on a leather chair Malfoy had picked out ("Something homey but classy, gives you that boy-next-door feel"), in a cashmere sweater Malfoy had picked out ("Muggle clothes will really help sell this idea"), ready to tell the reporter the things that Malfoy had picked out ("Just don't cock this up, Potter").

Harry didn’t know the reporter Pansy had arranged to have interview him; he wasn’t even particularly sure he knew much about the publication, _Nightingale_. But according to Pansy they were the new voice of the liberal wizarding media, could be relied upon not to spin everything to the Ministry of Magic party line, and although their circulation wasn’t huge, Pansy had said with a grim smile, “If they’ve got your first interview in twenty years, it bloody will be soon.”

At least it wasn’t Rita Skeeter, he thought to himself, trying to keep his mind from seeing Colin Creevey the way he did every time someone took his photograph.

“Just be natural,” said the photographer. “We want candid shots.” The photographer, Ritchie something, looked a little familiar, and as he gently rearranged Harry's hair, Harry noticed Pansy smiling to herself.

The journalist, Rhiona something, seemed a little star struck. She kept telling him what an honour it was. Harry bit his lip and nodded.

“Please Rhiona,” he said, “Let’s just start the interview.”

“Of course,” she said, blushing, and took out a notebook. There wasn’t a Quick-Quotes Quill in sight, Harry noted and relaxed a little.

“So, Mr Potter…”

“Harry, please,” he grinned.

Rhiona grinned back. “So, Harry. Usually you avoid the public eye. Why choose now to break your customary silence?”

Malfoy’s words coming out of Harry’s mouth: “Well, Rhiona, for the most part I felt like being Head Auror was doing my part for the wizarding world, but when I gave that up I realised there were other things going on that needed someone to speak out.”

Smooth, relaxed, open. Malfoy would be proud.

“What specifically?”

“Everyone knows that my younger son was sorted into Slytherin house at the beginning of this school year. At the time, I reassured him by telling him about one of his namesakes, Severus Snape – one of the bravest men I ever knew. I told him that the reputation of Slytherin house shouldn’t make him feel as though it couldn’t be a place for him.”

Rhiona nodded.

“But since being placed in Slytherin, Al has been telling me that he and his housemates are frequently bullied by members of the other houses. I’m sure everyone had altercations at school,” he rolled his eyes a little, “I certainly did. But the persistent nature of the bullying is what worries me, and it seems to stem from the attitudes of the wizarding world as a whole.”

“Go on,” Rhiona said, scribbling frantically.

“Did you know that the board of governors blocked a portrait of Severus Snape taking its place among the other Headmasters?”

Rhiona blinked. “I did not.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “It was kept rather quiet.” McGonagall probably wouldn’t thank him for bringing that up, but it had to be done. “That, and there is currently no Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts. Headmistress McGonagall assures me that she has been attempting to recruit for the post, but there have been no suitable applicants. And without proper role models,” he leaned forward meaningfully, as if he had been doing this all his life, “what kind of citizens can we expect these children to become?”

 

“You were rather good, Potter,” Pansy said after the interview. “Made your points, gave your opinions, answered all her questions without being too open – too open always looks desperate.” She nodded to herself. “You really were rather good.”

Harry sighed. He hadn’t much cared for Draco's coaching at the time, but during the interview he kept hearing the instructions in his head ( _smile, stay relaxed, always seem warm, goodness Potter, I’m surprised you know that word_ ) and it had helped. The thought of it brought a smile to Harry’s face now. Strange how something so resented could turn into a comfort.

“Think Malfoy will be happy?”

Something odd crossed Pansy’s face before it was smoothed away like a wrinkle from her skirt. “No doubt. This is a very good start, Potter, very good indeed.”

Harry smiled. “Do you think it will help find someone to take the job?”

Pansy sighed. “People will probably come forward, sure, but the downside of what we’ve done today is that now, the choice for head of Slytherin is going to seem even more important. It’s going to have to be someone who can really be a symbol."

"A symbol," repeated Harry thoughtfully.

"Do you think you could get McGonagall to consult with a third party about who to hire?"

"No chance whatsoever," Harry replied, but his mind was somewhere else.

"So, what are we going to do?"

Harry smiled at her. "Well, I'm going to lunch. Goodbye!"

 

“I know it’s a hell of a thing to ask,” Harry said, placing his tea cup carefully on the coffee table. “But it has to be someone completely above reproach.”

Andromeda Tonks rolled her eyes just slightly. “And the fact of who I am lends a lot of credibility to the move. It’s smart, Harry, it really is – here I am, the one person who straddles the line from the right hand of Voldemort to the dead heroes.”

Harry nodded. No one could ever accuse Andromeda of being slow. She placed her own teacup down on the immaculate table and looked over at the photographs waving from the mantelpiece – Teddy of course, but also the litany of her dead: her husband, her daughter, her sisters as children. Harry doubted she was really seeing any of them. The one thing he’d always admired about Andromeda was the way she drew strength from all her losses instead of being cowed by them. Even in the Great Hall on that night, looking at the bodies of her daughter and son-in-law, she hadn’t cried. She’d come up to Harry with dry eyes and she’d said, “Thank you for killing the son of a bitch.”

Harry said now, “I would feel so much better if I knew someone like you was looking out for them.”

“Well, of course,” said Andromeda with a touch of impatience. “An old friend, Slytherin from the days when the positive traits were still perceived. Of course. But I am old, Harry.”

“You are much, much younger than Professor McGonagall,” Harry pointed out.

Andromeda smiled reminiscently. “Ah, Minerva. She was so hard on me in school, you know. It would be a rather delightful twist to be working with her.” Her face became serious again. “Harry, I want to help, I do, but I am tired. I never meant to start my mothering days over again in my forties and while Teddy is a darling, it hasn’t been easy. I'm ready for some quiet.”

Harry nodded. “I can understand. I just thought…” He blew out an impatient mouthful of air. “I live alone now. Lily’s with Ginny and we still haven’t sorted out who gets her when. James and Al are away. If I didn’t have something to do I’d run mad.”

Andromeda laughed, and for a split second Harry saw the merest trace of Sirius in her face, which even to this day usually made him think of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Oh, well,” she said, “I never said I wasn’t bored. But a new career in my sixties? What would I even teach?”

Harry smiled. “That question I didn’t come with an answer for.”

“Nor should you!” she retorted, though her eyes were smiling. “I think you’ve done quite enough in the way of making me feel as though this is all pre-arranged.”

“I haven’t spoken to the Headmistress or anything,” Harry hastened to assure her.

“I should hope not!” she said. She hesitated a moment, looking at him intently. “You’re working with Narcissa’s boy on this?”

“That’s right,” Harry nodded.

“He didn’t come here with you?”

“I didn’t tell him I was coming. Not because I think he won’t like it, but I didn’t know if you’d want to see him and he tends to get… enthusiastic,” Harry felt his mouth shape a smile as he came up with a euphemism for Malfoy’s habitual exuberance.

“You like him?” Andromeda said, tilting her head to the side.

Here at least it was safe to admit it. “I do. No one was more surprised than me, but he’s actually got a lot of good qualities – he’s charming, but it’s more sincere than his father. He can be warm, he looks after the people he thinks are his responsibility, and he’s taken responsibility for a whole lot of people. He’s fun to have around, actually,” Harry finished, smiling again at the thought of Draco's manic energy and mercurial moods.

“You care about him?” Andromeda noted.

The thought took Harry by surprise. “Er, well, we work well together.” He could feel heat rising to his face, and tried not to squirm under Andromeda’s sharp eyes.

Andromeda looked at him very seriously. “You have to be careful, Harry. Slytherins are many things that people have forgotten – resourceful, smart, determined, single-minded. People always remember ambition and pureblood and so they overlook everything else. I destroyed my family to be with Ted,” she said matter-of-factly, though the words made Harry flinch, “and I thought it well worth the price.” Her eyes bored into his. “But you have to know, Harry, even the best of Slytherins will crawl over everyone else to get what they want.”

 

“Where the hell have you been?” snapped Malfoy when Harry got back to the office, chasing away the echoes of Andromeda’s words.

Considering he’d only just stepped into the waiting area, Harry was a little taken aback. “You weren’t even expecting me today!” he snapped right back.

Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. “I needed you here to fend off the dozens of your admirers who somehow got wind that you were working out of this office. The article hasn’t even been _written_ yet, never mind hit the stands, so what they were doing here is beyond me!”

“My… admirers?” said Harry, bemused.

“I assume they were for you,” he said witheringly, indicating the flowers. “I tend to warrant rocks through the window, not roses through the door.”

Harry looked at the card. “Rhiona, thanking me for my time. How thoughtful.”

“Yes, Potter, it’s very thoughtful of the lady journalist to send you flowers.” Malfoy had passed withering and was up to acidic. “I assume her contact details are there?”

Harry checked. “Er, yes. So?”

“So!” Malfoy exploded. “So the article is supposed to promote the issue affecting Slytherin alumni, not read as a personal ad for the Dad with a heart of gold taking on the world to make a brighter future. We want people to stand up for something, not make plots on how to get into your knickers.”

Harry stood for a moment, mouth flapping. He was beginning to get angry. “I didn’t want to do this, you know. I didn’t want any more attention on me or my family, but you insisted it was the best thing for what we’re trying to do and so I did it. And I did well, Pansy even said so-“

“Oh, well, if Pansy said so – Pansy might think that’s the best we could hope for but I disagree. I thought you were going to be professional.”

“I was!” Harry snapped. Ah, there it was, the age-old urge to smash Malfoy in the teeth. “I don’t know what on earth you’re getting so angry about when I was doing what you wanted!”

Malfoy glared at Harry for a long minute and sighed. “You’re right,” he said, though he didn’t apologise. To be fair, if he had, Harry would have suspected Polyjuice immediately. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he added with bad grace.

With that, Malfoy spun on his heel and stalked back into his office.

“And one delivery hardly makes dozens of admirers!” Harry yelled after him, disinclined to give up his own bad mood either.

The door slammed.

 

Harry went back to his flat. Not home – home was a detached house full of magic and children and his wife. Or, bizarrely, the office from which he’d just been ejected.

And how had that happened, and so quickly? How had he come to care about Malfoy’s rapid mood swings and why was he trying so hard for approval? Harry shook his head. Never mind Ginny, he barely understood himself.

As for Malfoy’s rapid mood swings – why on earth would he be upset that Harry had managed to charm the reporter – hadn’t that been the object of the exercise. He’d acted…

 _He acted like Ginny would have_ , came the thought.

The familiar tapping of an owl at the window snapped Harry out of his thoughts. He went to the window and saw the now-familiar sight of Malfoy’s owl. “Hello Strix,” he sighed, reaching for the missive.

 _Potter –  
Quite right, I shouldn’t expect you to be psychic, our Divination teacher being as she was. Tomorrow morning I want the full report on the interview. Pansy says you did indeed do very well, but she’ll be checking the final draft of the piece anyway. Do not ask me how she pulled off that one.  
She has also suggested that you and I attempt to address one another by our given names, as you apparently alluded to us becoming friends. I told her that was utterly indecorous, but the woman is a menace.  
Ten o’clock sharp tomorrow, and by the way we’re out of coffee.  
“Draco”_

Harry couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face.

 

The magazine was coming out this morning, thought Harry as he woke. He'd barely closed his eyes the night before for thinking about it, and now was happening. Half of wizarding Britain was going to read the article, and most likely tell the other half all about it.

Pansy had gotten a look at the advance copy, but she hadn’t deigned to leak it to Draco – which was driving him quite mad. Her secretive smile though seemed to Harry to imply that all was going to be well.

Draco had told Harry that he was going to have meetings for most of the morning but that Harry should drop by in the afternoon, when he would finally have had a chance to read it. Harry had remarked that considering that they were supposed to be working together, he really should have his own space in the office to which Draco had replied, "Soon as you start chipping in for rent, Potter." Which all things considered was a fair point and actually if they were going to work together long term, they should look for bigger office space, in a more respectable part of London. Harry made a mental note to bring this up, the next time he saw him.

Breakfast was an agonisingly long meal waiting for the owl to arrive and when it finally did, at half past eight, Harry tore open the magazine immediately.

The cover shot was wonderful, actually. Harry was talking intensely to the journalist, out of sight, and when he finished whatever it was he was saying, he smiled. Harry had never been vain, but looking at that photograph he could see the thing that had made the girls in Hogwarts go mad when he was sixteen, matured and deepened. He didn’t look like the person he saw in the mirror every day; he looked like someone you would listen to.

The headline read, “Redefining the War,” sub-headed, “Harry Potter speaks out on the problems affecting his children and yours.” Reading the article, Harry thought he came across well; not like someone on a soapbox, not like a politician – which was good, thought Harry dryly, since he distrusted the whole lot of them. He was just a guy you could have a drink with, who thought people should get along.

Pansy had chosen this magazine well, he was thinking to himself when the next owl arrived. It was from Andromeda. Harry tore it open urgently, whooping as he read it through.

 _Dear Harry,  
I must be about as cracked as you are, but having read your manifesto in my weekly magazine I see that nobody but me will do. The qualities you describe all belong entirely to myself, and just because your flattery is transparent doesn't mean it isn't effective.  
I'll write to Minerva later today.  
Love,  
Andromeda (Professor Tonks to you!)_

“YES!” Harry said, cheering himself in his own living room, the absurdity of which was not lost on him. There was only one person he wanted to share the good news with… but no, Harry should tell his sons first. Draco Malfoy was not the important thing here, Al was. He frowned at himself, and decided to write a letter straight away to reassure Al that if all went to place, he’d have help within the week. And then he decided to Floo his son instead. If ever there was a time to be the over-protective parent, this was it.

 

It was three o’clock when someone started pounding on his door. Harry had only just finished on the Floo with Al, and he wandered over to the door, reaching for his wand a little warily. Had someone objected that much to the article? And who even knew where he lived?

“Potter!” came Draco’s irate voice. “You open this door right this damn minute! Potter!”

Relieved and irritated in equal measure, Harry opened the door; Draco virtually fell into his foyer. Harry gripped his forearm to steady him, and considered once again how wonderful it was when Draco was close. He shoved the feeling aside.

“Hi, Malfoy,” Harry said. “A trifle excitable, don’t you think?”

Draco glared. “You were supposed to come into the office.”

“In the afternoon,” Harry pointed out. “I’ve still got two hours. Is that why I’m back to being ‘Potter’?” He was still gripping Draco’s forearm, and abruptly let go when he realised.

“I thought you’d be earlier.” Draco looked a little shifty. “I wondered if maybe the hate mail had started already.”

“No, but I _did_ get a letter I’m sure you’ll be interested to see,” Harry grinned. “You coming in?”

Draco curled his mouth into Harry’s favourite superior smile. “Why, Harry, I thought you’d never ask.” He handed Harry a bottle he hadn’t noticed – Firewhiskey.

“A little early, isn’t it?” said Harry, closing the door behind them.

“Don’t be any more middle class than you can possible help, Potter,” Draco drawled.

The first-name thing was still kind of a work in progress.

Draco wandered into the kitchen. Even though he’d never been to Harry’s flat before he didn’t deign to ask about the layout, he merely wandered around discovering things for himself. In the kitchen, he pulled a copy of _Nightingale_ out from his robes somewhere and flung it onto the counter.

"You did a nice job here, Harry!" Draco said, beaming. "I was right in that it absolutely reads like a personal ad, but maybe in this case that's not actually that big a problem. I mean, maybe lots of luscious ladies will read it and find time to pressure the Wizengamot _before_ they wind up in Azkaban for stalking!"

Harry smiled as though his gut wasn’t twisting at the sight of Draco in his flat like he belonged there. “That’s nothing,” he said, reaching for Andromeda’s letter. “Read this.”

Draco did, and although his face was well-schooled, Harry could see both surprise and doubt in his face – with maybe even a trace of dread.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” Harry asked.

“No-o-o,” Draco said slowly. “It’s a great political move, it’s just… I don’t really get on with her very well. But I’m sure we’ll come to understand each other. I mean, if she’s sincere in doing this, that’s wonderful. She’s a great choice, what with Aunt Bella on the one hand and…”

Draco didn’t finish the sentence, so Harry did. “Remus and Tonks.”

“I liked Professor Lupin, you know,” Draco said quietly. “And it was the same thing with him, the prejudice – although perhaps slightly more deserved with werewolves than some others.”

Harry remembered Fenrir Greyback and shrugged. “People are just people. Anyway, you wanted to celebrate?”

Draco’s face lit up. “I did indeed!” Draco always had a presence, always demanded attention. And he was _alive_ because of it, Harry realised now as the change in his demeanour changed the atmosphere in the whole room. Even at his most exhausted, most defeated, he carried more life with him than anyone Harry had ever known and that was something really special.

Harry grinned, “Shall we have dinner before we get drunk? I’m not a big drinker these days, and I’d hate to get a vomiting hangover at my age.” Oh, nice, Harry, talk about throwing up.

Draco blanched. “When you put it that way – let’s go for dinner.”

“Great!” Harry said. “I’m just going to change.” He left the room telling himself he was ridiculous for wanting to look his best – this was only Malfoy, after all.

 

It was later. Harry and Draco had eaten, bought another bottle of Firewhiskey and were just about to finish the first half of their all-night drinking session. They’d been through strategy, school, swathes of their history, and now they were onto their kids.

“I just want things to be better for Al,” Harry sighed. “I mean, I told him about the article today and he pitched a fit, but he calmed down really quickly which I think means I did right.” Harry took another long swallow from his glass. Having Draco in the next chair was not as good as having him sitting next to Harry on the couch, but their legs were touching and Harry could watch his throat when he drank.

Draco nodded. “I didn’t want to be relieved when Scorpius was placed in Ravenclaw, but part of me was. And then I told myself, if _I_ feel that way, how can I expect other people not to hate it. So I kept going.”

“Scorpius means the world to you,” Harry observed.

“He’s my son!” Draco said, as though Harry had just stated the patently obvious. He twisted his whisky glass in his hands. “I worshipped my father, but I never wanted Scorpius to feel the way about me that I felt about him.” He acted as though admitting this much was a betrayal.

Harry stretched a little. “My Dad… I always idolised him, and then I saw a Pensieve memory of Snape’s that made me wonder how the hell he ever got my Mum to go out with him at all.”

“Ugly, was he?” said Draco.

Harry kicked him.

“Bit arrogant, then?”

Harry felt an unwilling smile draw up his mouth – and he was _glad_ that he could smile about it now, about his parents foibles. He was glad to see them as real people and not need to apologise.

“My mother adored my father,” Draco said. “I sometimes felt as though I was a third wheel, that they were just taking an interest because they had to, and then the battle.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, thinking of Narcissa Malfoy who was in her way, absolutely magnificent. Harry idly wondered which, if either, of Draco’s parents had given him his passionate streak. “Must have been nice to have role models like that.”

Harry was half-taking the piss but Draco nodded as though it was true. “But how do you live up to it?” Draco sighed, settling himself and coincidentally moving just a fraction closer to Harry, which Harry forced himself not to notice. “When your parents – whatever their other faults,” he glared at Harry, “were Abelard and Heloise, you have rather unrealistic expectations for marriage.”

Harry didn’t know how to ask and was just drunk enough to not have that stop him. “Marriage not so great?”

Draco’s face tightened. “She’s been away… so long.”

Astoria Malfoy’s disappearance, followed by the revelation that she was simply spending some time abroad had been another almost-scandal which presumably Pansy had handled. Harry remembered that news day, too – another Malfoy quote from between gritted teeth, and Astoria’s photograph, so sad in her chic robes. “Where is she exactly?” Harry wanted to know.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Out of sight,” he said, chewing his lip. “She visits when she can, but it’s hard. On both of us. She wanted me to stop,” he said, and it sounded like a confession. “I thought it was going to affect Scorpius, everything I'd done, and being Slytherin, it never even occurred to me – but anyway, it was a good thing,” he told himself, seemingly unaware that Harry was still there. “It was a good thing, what I was trying to do.” He looked at Harry. “What we are doing.”

Harry felt a rush of warmth to his chest. “Yeah.” He considered a moment, the asked, “She wanted to be less in the public eye?”

But Draco had become guarded again, and he neatly turned the question around. “Is that what your Weasley wanted?”

Harry sighed. “No, she wanted… I don’t know. Someone domestic I suppose and I’m just… not. At all.” He sighed again. “I wanted to be, after the war. I thought that having a wife and kids, having a real home, it would mean everything but I just got restless.”

“You’d prefer life to be all guns and handcuffs I suppose?” Draco said, smiling wickedly.

Harry chuckled. “How do you know what either of those things are?”

“Oh, I’m familiar with Muggle things of all kinds, Potter,” Draco drawled, the smile never fading. He raised his glass to his lips to find it empty and glared at it, disappointed. “Shall we have that other bottle?”

“Sure,” Harry said with a grin.

Draco returned the smile, got up and went to the door. Harry watched him move, watched Draco open the door, pause for a long moment and close it again. He half-turned towards Harry and then stopped. “What are you doing?”

Harry frowned in confusion. “You came to talk about…”

Draco whirled around. “You asked me to dinner, and you’ve got us in your cosy lounge, and you’re asking about Astoria.” He took a step towards Harry. “Asking where she is and when she’s coming back,” another step, “and looking at me like…”

Harry blinked in non-comprehension even as his pulse began to race. “I don’t…”

Draco leaned into Harry’s face then, slate grey eyes burning with an expression that Harry had never seen before, that made all the places inside him he’d been ignoring tighten, and then Draco kissed him.

Harry’s skin had been _aching_ , it had been so long since someone had touched him, really touched him. And as Draco did, finally, his well-manicured nails ever-so-slightly cutting into the firm flesh at the nape of Harry’s neck, he groaned deep in his throat and longed to feel those nails in his shoulders, his back, his thighs. Blindly he reached up until he had Draco’s face in his hands, mouth opening to his and for the first time he realised just how long he had wanted this – and now he had it and it was _searing_.

Neither of them was being careful or polite, not for a moment. Harry could bite and savage and take, because this was Malfoy and however defeated he might seem in his unguarded moments, the one thing Harry could count on was that he would never, ever back down. And he wanted this so, so much and he could _have_ it, right here on his living room couch.

Draco snarled into Harry’s mouth and practically climbed on top of him. The weight of him pressed into Harry who responded by holding on ever harder to Draco’s hair and back as Draco’s mouth assaulted his. When Draco’s fingers tried to climb inside his clothes, Harry had to pull away, gasp for air and then found himself turning back into Draco’s body as though he were just as necessary. And Draco’s fingers had managed it, had climbed into his clothes, just like Draco had climbed into some part of Harry he hadn’t even known was there. Harry used his grip on Draco’s hair to jerk his head to the side so that he could run his tongue over Draco’s neck, leaving delicate licks punctuated by bites that made Draco moan.

“Potter,” he gasped, “this was not… I don’t…”

“I know,” said Harry quickly finding Draco’s mouth again. It had _never_ been like this with Ginny – Harry wondered if Draco had ever felt this with anyone.

The sudden roar of the Floo from the next room was a bucket of ice water on mating cats. Draco leapt off Harry almost to the other side of the room and Harry scrubbed at his face with one hand as he tried frantically to rearrange his clothing with the other.

“Who the hell is that?” Harry snapped.

“It’s me, Harry,” came Ginny’s voice. “I wanted to talk about that article – I’m sorry it’s so late. Where are you?”

“Now isn’t a good time,” Harry fumbled, looking desperately at Draco who was resolutely not looking back.

“Sorry,” said Ginny, a peeved note in her voice, but the cessation of the sound told him that she was gone at least. Harry never took his eyes off Draco, who had straightened his clothes and had covered his mouth with his hand.

“Draco,” Harry began, with no idea of what he was going to say.

Draco never let him get to it. He visibly pulled himself together, straightened and said, “I should go.”

“No,” Harry blurted, “don’t-“

But Draco made a sharp gesture, cutting him off and said, “Goodnight,” before turning on his heel and Disapparating.

Harry sat there stunned for a moment, the abruptness of the evening’s end leaving his head whirling. He went to bed with his sex drive in overload, cursing himself every inch of the way. His whole body was alive and writhing, demanding something Harry knew that he could not demand – something Draco was in no way obligated to give him – in fact, quite the opposite. Harry would never have cheated on Ginny and he would be belittling Draco to expect that he would cheat on Astoria.

 _Except that she left him, didn’t she?_ whispered the voice that rebelled, the voice inside that didn’t care, would take anything from Draco he could get.

Damn it, how had this happened? Ginny was gentle and caring and he'd loved her but they'd been drifting along like petrified ghosts for years. And now of all people, Malfoy, to wake him up. But he knew why, really. Malfoy always had been electric.

It was going to take long time for him to get to sleep.

 

When Harry woke the next morning, it was not to the gentle sound of Draco’s breathing or a warm, comforting presence at his back. It was to the sound of the Floo and Al screaming through it, “Dad, please! Wake up, Dad, you have to come, you have to come _now_!”

Harry had never heard that note in Al’s voice.

When he got to Hogwarts barely five minutes later,

It had happened in the middle of the night, apparently. One of the Hufflepuffs Al had mentioned to Harry, a Muggle-born girl by the name of Rosemary Pinewood, had been waiting outside the library for Daniel Flint. She had been alone, unusual for a Hufflepuff, but perhaps the prospect of three first-year boys hadn’t disturbed her overmuch. The usual taunts broke out and then, abruptly, Rosemary had thrown a curse that none of the others knew and the air around Daniel formed knives which sliced into his skin, all over his body. His nose had been cut clean off. And this was worse even than _Sectumsempra_ because when Madam Pomfrey got to him, she couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. They’d had to send Daniel to the specialist ward at St Mungo’s, where mercifully it seemed he was going to live.

Rosemary had tried to hide in the castle; when she was inevitably found she simply said, “Why do they get to do whatever they want? Why are they even _here_?”

Al could barely get he words out for sobs tearing from his throat. “He just wouldn’t stop bleeding, Dad,” he whimpered. “I thought he was going to die and I should have done something, but I didn’t know what and I was so scared I couldn’t even run for a healer, I just stood there looking at that… bitch.” Al gulped out that last word but Harry couldn’t tell his son off for bad language at a time like this.

“I didn’t know they’d be able to hurt us,” Al said, still sobbing.

“They won’t,” Harry said, desperate and rash enough to promise anything. “Not ever again.”

 

Harry had hoped to get some inside information from his old office. Unfortunately it didn’t seem to be turning out that way. He was stuck in the waiting area for journalists and media whores, and they all wanted a statement. He ended up telling an endless line of them that he was “shocked and disgusted”, that he hoped “serious questions would be asked” and he even remembered to throw in a line about how Slytherin house needed a Head “now more than ever”.

Eventually he just nipped out of the room using the door only the Aurors knew about, leading directly to the holding cell area.

“Harry!” came a familiar voice. “You can’t go down there.”

Ron. “Why will no one tell me what’s going on?” Harry hissed as he turned to face his oldest friend.

Ron looked at him steadily. “Because, mate, you’re not the boss any more. You’re a civilian. You know the rules.”

Harry bit down his frustrated reply and changed tactic. “At least tell me what’s going to happen to the girl.”

Ron shifted. “Muggle-born parents. They’re all going to be Obliviated and sent back to the Muggle world. It was that or she was going to have to stand trial,” he said. “Full court. That wasn’t a bit of magic gone wrong – she was trying to torture that boy. The parents said that all this magic changed her, and I think they must have been right – how the hell does a Muggleborn girl get to be so anti-Slytherin so fast? Three years ago she wouldn’t even have known what the word meant.”

Harry could not imagine being sent back to be a Muggle after spending any time, any time at all in this wonderful world. “How is she?”

“Resigned,” Ron said with a twisted smile. “It’s really fucked up, Harry.”

“Yeah, mate,” Harry said, thinking of everything that had happened in the last two days.

“Good on you for doing something about it,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the back.

“Yeah,” Harry said, slightly distracted by the sight of the woman coming out of the Auror holding cell behind Ron.

Where had he seen her before?

 

As Harry walked into the office building in the morning and climbed the stairs, he was rehearsing or at least trying to figure out what on earth he would say to Draco. There was no time to talk about last night, not in light of this morning, but Harry wanted to talk about it – the kiss and the longing and what it all might mean.

"Draco-" Harry began as he opened the door.

But it wasn’t Draco in the waiting area. Nor was it Pansy, who, relatively speaking, he would have loved to see.

“Hi,” said the lovely, slender blonde woman who was holding out her hand to him. “We’ve never met, but I’m…”

“Astoria Malfoy,” Harry said, feeling the weight of the world suddenly begin compressing and compacting him, making his chest and stomach hurt.

She smiled and she was beautiful. “Yes. And of course you’re Harry Potter – everyone knows you.”

Harry could have laughed at the banality of that sentiment, but now didn’t seem like the time.

“Darling, have you seen my…?” came Draco’s voice, the man himself following it out of the back office. When he saw Harry his face immediately took on that mask-like expression that Harry could always see, but never see through.

Harry looked at the man he’d kissed less than twenty-four hours ago, and his wife. There was nothing in the etiquette books on how to deal with this one, Harry was sure, even though he’d never read an etiquette book in his entire life. Harry shoved the awkwardness aside and focused on the important things.

“Draco, where have you been?” he said, exhaustion threatening to claim him. He kept his voice as steady as he could. “You know what happened at Hogwarts yesterday?”

“The whole world knows,” Draco confirmed. “That’s why Astoria came back.” She held out her hand and Draco went to stand by her, slipped her hand into his so naturally it was clear this was a gesture she’d made hundreds of times. Draco looked utterly blank; it was as though he and Harry were absolutely nothing more than acquaintances. Harry felt nauseated.

“I went down to Auror headquarters,” he said, “But they wouldn’t tell me anything. And then I found out that the girl’s already been Obliviated and sent back out into the Muggle world – over the protests of half the Aurors in the DMLE. I can’t even imagine the howling protests of the Slytherin parents when the papers run this.”

“That’s not good,” Astoria said in her soft voice. “Draco, you’ll have to reason with them.”

“And say what? At least she didn’t kill him?” Harry snapped because what she was saying was stupid and not even slightly because she was in his way.

Astoria flinched, but Draco said, “She’s right, you know. We can’t have them baying for blood – we need to get the Head of House in place immediately, and talk about long-term changes afterwards.” Draco rubbed his forehead. “Obviously there are going to have to be huge changes at Hogwarts – perhaps a new Headmistress, even.”

“This isn’t McGonagall’s fault!” Harry said.

Astoria said, “No, but it happened under her purview.”

Harry made an impatient sound and turned away.

“Harry,” said Draco, and the sound of his name in that voice was enough to turn Harry’s whole body towards him instantly. “How is your son? The paper said he witnessed it.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, hoping it didn’t look like he was hugging himself. “He’s not so good.” There was no time to think about himself now, Harry thought. There was Al and the papers and the school and so, so much, and he could not afford to be distracted just because Draco would not let go of his wife’s damned hand.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and he actually sounded it. “You should go back, be with him.” No, wait, he sounded like someone who desperately wanted Harry to leave.

“What about…?” Harry didn’t even know what he was going to say.

“I have a letter here,” Draco said, dropping his wife’s hand at last and quickly grabbing the letter from inside his office. “McGonagall’s taking on Andromeda, effective immediately. She’s been down at the school since late morning, and she’s to start teaching straight after her press conference tomorrow morning. We’re both invited,” he finished, brandishing the parchment. He was all brisk and business-like, and Harry couldn’t think at all except about Al’s scream and Daniel’s bloody face and Draco’s weight pressing into his and how all of this was just too damn much for one day.

Harry rubbed his face. “I’m going to go see Al,” he said. That was one thing he could do, one place he could be useful.

“Yes, do,” said Astoria, smiling at him gently.

She was lovely and understanding and Harry hated her.

“Harry, can I talk to you for just one moment?” Draco said, surprising him. “If it’s all right with you?” he added, turning to his wife.

Astoria smiled. “Of course.”

Draco smiled back at her and Harry wondered if she could see it was forced as clearly as he could. Rather than walking into his office, Draco indicated the hallway. “Harry, I’ll walk you out.”

The door closed on Mrs. Malfoy and Harry nearly rounded on Draco, who made a sharp gesture back towards the room and then towards the stairs.

It was on the first floor landing that Draco said, “My wife came back this morning.”

Harry had clenched his fist right outside the office door; the knuckles were now white. “So I see.”

Draco nodded. “I always knew she would.”

“I didn’t realise that,” Harry said.

Draco rubbed his forehead. “This is not the time or the place to be having this conversation.”

“No,” Harry agreed.

Draco looked at him for just a second, and then swore. The next thing Harry knew, he was against the wall with Draco’s mouth on his, Draco’s thigh trying to slide between his own. Harry groaned and he knew, he _knew_ this was wrong but oh, how he wanted it.

“Stop,” he gasped. “Stop, no, your wife is upstairs.”

Draco pulled back just enough to meet Harry’s gaze; he had knocked Harry’s glasses askew and Harry could see him half in focus, half blurry. Two Dracos, he thought distantly, and all told that was pretty accurate.

“Does she have to have something to do with this?”

Harry looked at Draco in disbelief. “You want me to – what? Be your bit on the side?”

Draco straightened, flushing. “No, no of course not. No, you’re…” Draco looked for just a second as though his face were being twisted out of shape and then he got hold of himself. “You’re worth more than that.”

Harry breathed out, long and shuddering. Draco started to pull away – Harry pulled him back. “Would you ever… You said it wasn’t like your parents’ love. You said it wasn’t what you’d hoped for.”

Draco didn’t look at him. “You don’t understand. I can’t leave her.”

“Why not?” Harry snapped. “She left you.”

Draco wiped his mouth with his hand as though afraid he would throw up. “You don’t understand,” he repeated uselessly.

“Don’t you,” Harry said and he was damn near begging, “don’t you want to see what this could be, you and me?”

Draco still wasn’t looking at him.

“Draco!” Harry snapped. “Don’t you want this?”

“No,” he said and it hurt even though Harry knew, knew he was lying.

“When you touched me I came alive,” Harry breathed, pulling Draco back towards him as though sheer proximity in this moment could force Draco to stay forever. He rested his forehead against Draco’s and Draco allowed it, eyes fluttering closed. “I know you want this. Be with me,” he begged, and it was begging. There was something so strong here just waiting to flare into life. Harry could feel the air, full of static charge and potential. He couldn’t just let Draco walk away.

“I can’t,” Draco breathed. He wrenched himself away from Harry, who felt it as a physical ache, and without another word he was fleeing back up the stairs to his wife.

Harry stood there for a long moment, propped up against the wall with his blood roaring in his ears and a sick feeling in his stomach.

Draco was going to stay with her. Draco didn’t want him enough.

Harry didn’t dare think about Draco in case he did something unforgiveable. Instead he thought about Astoria, and hated her. And then he thought about neither of them because he had to think about his son. That was the only right thing left to do.

 

Al had to be given a potion to get him to sleep. McGonagall had given Harry permission to take him home for a few days, and now Al was sleeping on his bed as he was drinking more Firewhiskey and trying to stop his mind from whirling. He really wasn’t sure if the drink was helping or just making it worse.

Something wasn’t quite right.

Even with his emotions in turmoil and half his mind caught up imagining Draco and Astoria in elaborate welcome-back sexual situations, Harry could tell that something about what had happened at Hogwarts just didn’t add up. He shoved his Draco-related hurt feelings aside and focused on the events at Hogwarts; at the very least it would be a distraction and if he found out he was wrong, he would have reassured himself.

There was some loose end somewhere, his Auror instincts were telling him, that would bring everything into focus.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he had bruised heart, a sick feeling in his stomach and a soon-to-be-ex-wife hysterically calling into the Floo every hour to check on her son, even though she’d already been through to Harry’s flat twice. My, Harry thought, that had helped his equilibrium.

Something just wasn’t right, and Harry absolutely couldn’t work out what it was.

The thought that having Malfoy here would make everything better was not one Harry allowed himself to dwell on.

 

Several days passed with Harry doing everything he could to look after Al and not think about Draco. That afternoon would see the press conference held on behalf of Andromeda Tonks to announce her as the new head of Slytherin House and spokesperson for issues affecting young Slytherins.

“Will you be coddling them?” one reporter jeered, half-jokingly and Andromeda turned her fiercest Grandmother look on him.

“I will be keeping them in line, rest assured of that. I feel what they need most at his time is encouragement, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of discipline.” Andromeda flicked her eyes up and down the reporter’s body. “Would you like a demonstration?” she said sweetly, batting her eyelashes in a way that forty years ago would have stopped traffic.

The reported spluttered in a way that made his colleagues jeer him in their turn, and Andromeda winked at Harry. Al smiled at him, and Harry did his best to return the smile. Neither smile was quite sincere; Al had seen blood for the first time in his life and Harry had finally realised that he wouldn’t be able to protect his son.

Ginny had been right, after all. But Al would never leave Hogwarts now, and she’d been right about that, too – Al was going to do what Harry would have done.

Harry tried to focus on something else, but that wasn’t much better. Draco and Astoria were on the other side of the room, projecting an air of the perfect couple which might have convinced Harry if he didn’t feel Draco’s eyes on him. Harry kept his own eyes away from them, although he was achingly aware of their every move. It made sense for Astoria to support her husband at a time like this, Harry supposed, but if she had wanted to get out of the way of all the publicity, this was rather counter-productive. And where had she been? No one had ever answered that question to Harry’s satisfaction.

“Hey, Harry!” said Rhiona, approaching him from nowhere.

Harry snapped to attention, and greeted her gladly. “Rhiona! I never thanked you properly for the flowers.”

She blushed a little and smiled. “The least I could do for someone who gave my career such a huge break.”

“Thank Pansy,” Harry said, Rhiona making him smile despite all the turmoil. “Al, this is Rhiona Henngan.”

“You wrote that article?” Al asked.

“That’s right,” Rhiona smiled. “I hope you liked it.”

Al shrugged, a little lifeless.

“I heard you saw what happened,” Rhiona said softly.

Harry frowned. “Are you trying to get a quote from my son?”

Rhiona’s eyes widened. “No, Harry, no! I just… I’m sorry.”

Harry ruffled his hair in frustration. He could _feel_ Draco’s eyes on him, despairing and maybe affectionate. He ignored the feeling.

“I’m sorry Rhiona, I’m just on edge.”

“Of course,” Rhiona said, but she didn’t smile again. She looked away for a moment and then said, “Did you see the statement the Auror office released about the Pinewood girl?”

Harry shook his head. Ron wouldn’t have thought to send that to him, having already told him the gist of what had happened. “I’d like to read it.”

“Of course,” Rhiona said. “Here, we’ve got a dozen copies in the office.” She handed him a piece of paper from her briefcase. He took it, but she didn’t let go for a moment until he looked into her face. “I’m just trying to help,” she said softly, and then she left.

Harry sighed. Al was getting restless and finally said, “Dad, I’m going to the toilet.”

Harry had already been accused of smothering his son twice since the sobbing of the previous day had subsided, so he said simply, “All right, Al.”

It was lucky that Al wasn’t there when Harry stared to read the press release.

All the information Harry already knew was there, of course, plus statements from the Head Auror (Harry had never liked Dawlish) and Minister for Magic, who “supported the swift, decisive action of the DMLE”, which Harry recognised as politician-speak for, “They never bloody asked and now I’m stuck with it.”

At the bottom of the page was the picture of Rosemary Pinewood’s mother. And there it was, the siren going off in his head – he’d seen that woman before. In the corridor at the DMLE and, now he remembered, in Draco’s office.

Marcus Flint, Daniel’s father, was an old friend. Astoria had reappeared. The Pinewood family had vanished into the Muggle world, untraceable.

All these tiny things were coming together and blowing the roof off Harry’s mind, and he was sick to his stomach with just the thought of it. But he knew it the way he’d always known who was guilty and who wasn’t, his lie detection honed from years and years in the Auror office, and he knew.

 

“Draco,” Harry said, smoothly interrupting Draco’s conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, even smiling politely at Astoria in her champagne-silk robes, “could I speak with you for just a moment?”

Draco said immediately, “Of course, Harry.”

Even the use of his first name was a lie.

Harry led Draco to an empty office to the side of the main hall and closed the door behind them. “ _Muffliato_.”

Draco looked at him. “I know yesterday was, well, awful, but…”

“It was you,” Harry whispered.

Draco frowned a little. “I don’t…”

“What happened. What happened at Hogwarts.” Harry swallowed, desperate not to have to continue but unable to stop. “I don’t know how, but… it was because of you.”

“Harry?” said Draco softly. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman in your office. Marcus Flint and Pansy Parkinson. All the people you know, and now this and you’re involved in the clean up.” Harry swallowed against the rising bile and when he spoke again he was pleading. “Tell me you didn’t do this.”

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry had seen the truth in the split second it took for his face to deny it. “How could you do it?” Harry felt sick again. “Innocent students – what about the girl Rosemary, she…”

“Innocent!” Draco exploded suddenly. “Yes, you _would_ think a student who fired a spell marked ‘For enemies’ at a fellow student was innocent.”

A stunned silence followed.

“Don’t you dare,” breathed Harry. “Not after all this, don’t you dare…”

“Why not?” Draco snapped. “The scar hasn’t faded, you saw it. And you never said you were sorry, you were so damn self-righteous.”

Harry’s head ached. He felt like he was back in that horrible conversation with Ginny, the one that ended their marriage; he felt bewildered and as though his inability to grasp something essential was why everything around him was collapsing. The only difference was, this time he wasn’t miserable so much as furious.

“Do you really think,” he forced out, “any of that justifies hurting a child?”

“No!” Draco practically screamed. “I think the fact that eleven-year-olds are suffering for things we did before they were so much as conceived justifies anything that makes it stop!”

Harry had no answer for that.

“Oh, that motive isn’t Slytherin enough for you?” Draco spat. “I’ve got plenty of selfish reasons as well, if that helps. I want to be respectable again, I want being a Malfoy to be a blessing to my son and not a curse, I want being Slytherin to stand for something other than self preservation. Pureblood is an epithet now, Slytherin doubly so, and I helped cause that and I’m the only one with the slightest chance of undoing it! And if I can, if I manage it, then I didn’t roll over and let the last wizarding traditions die. So you tell me what that isn’t worth!”

“It isn’t worth destroying a child’s life-“

“Which child? The ‘victim’ will have all his medical expenses paid, and a lovely career as a spokesman and poster boy for standing up against discrimination – and he gives his housemates a shot at a future. The perpetrator will get a ticket to Durmstrang and her parents a fat bag of Galleons. And both of them will still have more of a future than they ever did before.”

“The perpetrator was your _wife_!” Harry snarled.

Draco’s face slipped into a mask. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? A third year student did it and she’s been away just over two years, she never told anyone where.” Harry spat and he felt now like he was throwing up, an endless torrent of words that would never stop, “All your talk of how it was hard but you were doing the right thing - don’t _lie_ to me, I’m _tired_ of it.”

“She is my wife and I will not betray her,” Draco said quietly.

“Oh, but screwing me behind her back wouldn’t be betraying her?” Harry flared up, his own betrayal at Draco’s hands lending him venom.

Draco’s eyes snapped to his. “I told you, you don’t understand and you…”

Harry’s fury was rising. “But how, how did you do it? You’d have to confound the Hogwarts registry, the Sorting Hat, you’d have to fake all of her records and then you’d have to be sure that the lie wouldn’t ever be found out. You must have been setting this up for _years_ , perpetrator and of course the victim…” Another thought and now Harry couldn’t contain himself; he crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Malfoy by the front of his robes and shook him. “Was it supposed to be Al? _Were you going to do this to my son?_ ”

“No!” Draco forced out. “To mine.”

Harry stilled. He dropped Draco and forced himself to take a step back. “You were going to…”

Draco righted himself as best he could. “This was all for Scorpius. I was so sure that he’d be a Slytherin and that plus the Malfoy name would mean his life would never even start. He would have no chance, ever. And so we talked about it and he agreed and then we Obliviated him. And it turned out it was for nothing,” he laughed, hollow and dead. “But Astoria said we should do it anyway, for all the others and that bit of damned Gryffindor thinking got us here.”

Harry couldn’t believe Draco would be so cold. “There were other ways…”

"I was working in the system – what have I achieved?" Draco's lip curled; he was trying to sneer but he just looked more desperate with his mouth twisted out of shape, pulling at his robes where Harry had grabbed him. “In fifteen years nothing I’ve tried has worked. Even you, you didn’t give a damn about Slytherin until it affected your precious family!” Draco spoke in the tone of one who knows how deep words can cut and is choosing the sharpest in his arsenal. “And when you realised you didn’t know what to do, who did you ask for help? Your passionate-with-a-cause Granger or her lapdog? No. Your wife? Did it never occur to you that working together for something to do with your children might revive your marriage? No, you came to _me_. The one person you knew would get results and wouldn’t balk at what needed to be done. See that’s the real trick with us Slytherins,” Draco hissed, stepping towards Harry. “If you need something, we know how to apply the pressure, we know who to bribe and who to blackmail and you don’t have to get your hands dirty. Because you knew, you _knew_ I would do anything short of murder.” Draco looked at him with accusation and spat, “Unlike you.”

Killing Voldemort was hardly comparable. “You were going to torture your own son!”

“I didn’t want to!” Draco screamed. “I didn’t want to – the plan was he and I would change places but then everything else happened and there wasn’t _time_.”

Harry wiped his mouth. “And you think I’m a murderer? I’m beneath _you_?” He spat the pronoun the way he’d said Malfoy’s name at Hogwarts – a dozen epithets and a declaration of hatred all in one word.

“No,” Draco said quietly, all his fire gone. Now he just seemed exhausted, the way he always did when his passion had burned out and there was nothing to animate him. “But don’t you see, there’s never going to be an enemy like Voldemort again – one kind enough to be outright evil and stupid enough to let you point a wand at him. Now there’s just red tape and paper work and bureaucracy and a whole world hating a quarter of itself. What I did,” he concluded, not looking for understanding, just saying it, “it’s going to help.”

There was no solid ground in all the world. a Harry had never understood anyone he had ever loved. There was nothing that could make sense of this new, abominable discovery that Draco had betrayed him and he could almost understand why.

“I could tell them,” he said, changing the subject, Draco’s exhaustion contagious and seeping into his bones. “I could tell the papers it was all you.”

“You could. But then it would all be for nothing.” Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s. “The backlash will hit the Slytherins harder, all the steps towards understanding will be undone.”

“It was a lie,” Harry said hopelessly.

“Are you that naïve?” Draco asked, and he wasn’t amused, wasn’t mocking for once. If he’d looked smug at all perhaps that would have tipped Harry’s answer but he just met Harry’s eyes with a blank kind of curiosity. Harry held his gaze until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I didn’t think so,” said Draco, his voice gentle.

Harry made a snarling sound in the back of his throat and turned away, choking on his own impotence. “Was the,” he swallowed, “the kiss part of the plan, too?” he asked bitterly.

“How could it have been?” Draco tried to reach for Harry’s arm, but he flinched away. Harry couldn’t meet his gaze, no matter how long Draco looked at him.

Draco finally said, “I want you, I do, but,” he swallowed hard and his eyes begged Harry to understand. “After everything she’s done, how could I ever leave her?”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Harry bit out. It made him feel worse, if anything.

“I didn’t think it would,” Draco said lifelessly. “It’s just too damn late.”

A knock at the door. “Draco?” came Astoria’s voice. “Scorpius is asking for us.”

Harry wondered how much she’d heard, and how much she’d care if she knew. What kind of marriage did they have, and how on earth did it make sense? He looked back at Draco whose face was as composed as though they really had just been discussing their next step, who was smiling at his wife with tenderness in his face. “Just one minute,” he said.

Astoria glanced between him and Harry, and said, “Of course, my love.” She closed the door quietly.

Draco turned back to Harry. “I knew it would cost me you, if you ever found out,” he admitted. “But there was too much else at stake.” He laughed, hollow in his throat. “If I had just waited or if I had come to you before we decided this…” He shook his head and reached out with both his hands. “Harry, please.”

Harry said nothing. He crossed his arms across his chest and couldn’t bring himself to look at Draco again.

Draco swallowed. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t try to touch Harry again; he crossed to the other side of the room and opened the door.

“Goodbye,” Draco whispered as he left the room.

 

Harry can honestly say that at this moment, he never wants to see Draco again. He is watching him with Astoria, playing the perfect husband. And maybe he is. Maybe he and Astoria understand each other.

Draco has turned everything Harry stood for into lies and Harry can’t even hate him for it because Harry knows him now. He sees Draco with Scorpius and knows that he can’t even fathom that kind of love. And then he looks at Al and he hopes like hell he never has to find out if he can do what Draco did.

Andromeda is talking now about the qualities of Slytherin house that have been overlooked since the second war. The reporters are taking notes and smiling, but Harry is remembering Andromeda saying, _even the best of Slytherins will crawl over everyone else to get what they want_.

Harry is holding onto Al’s shoulder and looking at Draco Malfoy and he’s thinking that his son might become this. He’s helping change the reputation of a house that gives the world people who do whatever it takes, and although what Harry has done might make people think differently, make them more eager to trust, Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to again.

Draco looks over at him with a deep sadness in his eyes. Harry waits for the tug of desire, but feels nothing but revulsion. He hopes like hell it lasts.

Harry squeezes Al’s shoulder again and Draco turns back to his wife and son and Harry knows that they both made their choices long before any kind of _them_ might have been possible.

 

~fin.


End file.
